He pushed his pace, testing his body's limits.
Expanding lungs drew air that fueled churning legs, his muscles firing in easy coordination as the world blurred past in streaks of green and brown.
Like a driver who finally knows the clutch point of a new sports car.
The proprioceptive lag from his rapid ascension had vanished. A week ago, shattering the twenty percent rule had left him piloting a chassis with too much horsepower for his reflexes, the controls hypersensitive and erratic. Now the calibration was seamless. His [Savant of the Body] had finished its work, assimilating the massive attribute spike into a unified whole.
He was fast. Peak F-tier Agility and Strength fast. The Endurance attunement meant he could maintain this sprint for miles without gasping.
But he wasn't fast.
Not really.
Cal slowed to a jog, then a walk. He pressed a hand against his sternum, feeling the faint ache that lived beneath his flesh.
[Channel Erosion: 17%]
Even after a week of relatively low activity and no Stamina use the erosion hadn't healed in the slightest.
He grimaced. Spirit injuries are no joke.
The damage was invisible, but its presence overshadowed like a governor chip on an engine, preventing him from accessing his true power. He could run. He could fight. But if he tried to channel Stamina through those damaged pathways the backlash could injure him further. Or worse.
No [Dash]. No [Flicker Step]. No easy outs.
That wasn't the whole picture, though. The erosion locked away his trump cards, but it left his foundation untouched. His body was a finely tuned machine now, every point of Strength and Agility fully integrated by [Savant of the Body]. He didn't need flashy Abilities to win. He just needed to be stronger, faster, and smarter than his opponent. And right now, he felt like he was.
And Mana wasn't an option either. Despite spending the last week burning the midnight oil with Aurelian’s grimoires, the Basic Spells for the Alchemical Aspirant, he had nothing to show for it but eye strain. He understood the theoretical framework for every Spell and its uses, but each attempt to actually weave a rune ended in a handful of dissipating mist.
Cal exhaled, resuming his walk. The agricultural belt sprawled outward, a humid network of clearings carved from the density of the forest. Deep drainage trenches lined the road, siphoning groundwater away from rows of gnarled fruit trees and raised planting beds. Farmers moved through the damp shadows scraping moss from bark in a ceaseless war against the overgrowth. The air smelled of damp peat and sweet fermentation, the scent of a harvest constantly fighting off rot.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, looking toward where the city lay hidden beyond the trees.
Deadfall was bigger than he’d realized.
He sped back up and continued on. The integration had finally stripped the fog from Thal’s recollections, replacing random impressions with a high-fidelity mental map of the entire region. And now, seeing the reality—the sheer, sprawling magnitude of the western expanse—he was starting to understand the size of the community. He'd been moving at a relentless pace for twenty minutes, yet the infrastructure of civilization stretched on.
They called this a village. By Earth standards, that was a branding error.
Deadfall was a city. It was a frontier boomtown engorged on dungeon wealth and held together by Imperial decree. The "village proper" was merely the high-density core. This agricultural belt was part of the expanded footprint—miles of labor-intensive infrastructure worked by tenant farmers who paid taxes to the Dominion for the land and protection fees to the Guild for their lives.
And beyond that? The true wild.
Cal turned his attention forward, letting his [Spiritual Perception] flare outward in a lazy sweep. His senses probed for the synesthetic hum of power, the telltale vibrations of spiritual flora or fauna.
Silence.
The feedback remained flat and gray. No vibrant blooms of aura: the landscape was spiritually barren. It made sense considering where he was. Any plant with a hint of real power would have been harvested by a sharp-eyed farmer or forager immediately.
His hand drifted to the pack on his back, feeling the cloth-wrapped parcel through the leather which Cassia had pressed into his hands before leaving. The bread was still warm, the stew sealed in a watertight jar. She'd hovered, maternal and concerned, asking if he'd packed enough water and reminding him to stay out of the deep woods. Her doting was sweet, if completely unnecessary.
It reminded him of the conversation he'd had a few days before.
The common room of the Hearthsong Inn had been quiet; the evening rush settled for the night. Cal sat at a private table near the hearth flanked by Corinne and Leo. Across from them, Cassia and Gareth sat contentedly, their postures relaxed but attentive.
It had been three days since Rufan. Three days since he'd stood in the Dominion Chancellery and severed the last ties to Thalorin's past trauma.
Cal met their eyes in turn. "I wanted to tell you in person. I've registered a new identity with the Dominion. My name is now Cal Valorn."
Gareth's expression didn't change. He sat still, his massive frame motionless, his deep green eyes studying Cal with the intensity of a craftsman inspecting a tool. Then, slowly, he gave a single nod.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Cassia reached across the table, covering Cal's hand with her own. Her smile was gentle and full of understanding. "Cal Valorn. It suits you. A fresh start for a young man looking forward."
Corinne grinned with infectious energy. "Cal! I like it. And it'll be just as easy to yell when you're being an idiot." She paused, her expression softening. "Are you okay? With leaving the old name behind?"
He assured her with a quick smile and nod.
Leo said nothing. He simply reached over and squeezed Cal's shoulder.
Cal’s attention settled on the people who had taken him in when he'd had nothing, who had fed him, trained him, and stood by him when he needed it most. A fond feeling stirred in his heart as he savored the moment.
Belonging.
He blinked, pulling himself back to the present. The road stretched ahead, a hard-packed spine elevated above the sodden reality of the surrounding terrain. On either side, workers stood knee-deep in drainage trenches, tending to the reinforced planting beds that kept the crops from drowning during big rain cycles. They straightened as he passed, their eyes tracking him—noting the boiled leather armor that covered him from head to toe, the spear strapped to his back—before returning to the endless battle against the environment. Just another adventurer off to do adventuring things.
He was glad his friends had accepted his decision. Even his associates hadn't made a fuss. He let the warmth of the memory settle, then stored it away.
Focus. You're on the clock.
He reached into his [Perfect Memory] and pulled up the Guild contract, recalling the parchment to confirm his route. The directions were simple: follow the western road until you reach the lightning-struck stump. Turn north onto the old trail. Henrik's orchard is half a mile in.
Cal continued on, scanning the horizon, using [Savant of the Mind] to analyze the written directions and the terrain. There. A blackened skeletal trunk rose from the roadside, its branches twisted and charred. Slowing, he turned north and stepped off the packed dirt onto a narrow path that led through a string of overgrown sword ferns.
As he walked, he ran the numbers.
The bounty Henrik posted was fifty silver to kill a high F-tier mosshide bear. The loot—assuming he could harvest a spirit stone and enough quality fat—would fetch another gold and fifty silver at the Guild.
Two gold.
Cal's lips twitched in a humorless smile. He was risking his life for the fantasy equivalent of what felt like an office supply order.
But that was the reality of the Sovereign Path.
Two gold was a drop in the ocean. A single pixel in a spreadsheet that seemed endless.
Welcome to the gig economy, Sovereign Edition.
Cal's thoughts turned cynical, his jaded corporate experience kicking in. The Guild was a protection farming operation, pure and simple. The Dominion cared about two things: the walls and the dungeon. Those were Imperial interests, strategic assets that generated essence stones and military power. The Legion protected those assets.
Everything else? The farms, the orchards, the livestock? That was the tax base. The Guild existed to keep the tax base alive long enough to extract revenue. If you paid your protection fees, the Guild would send someone to kill the spirit beast eating your crops. If you didn't pay, you died, and the Dominion auctioned your land to someone who would.
Cal sighed. It was callous. Efficient. And utterly amoral.
He crested a low rise and stopped.
Henrik's orchard sprawled before him, a grid of twisted apple trees that marched down a gentle slope. The branches were fat with fruit, the apples swollen and red in the morning light. At least on the trees that still had them. The pattern of damage told a clear story.
He noted the obvious progression of damage. The nearest trees were stripped bare, their lower branches shattered and hanging at broken angles. Deep gouges marred the bark where massive claws had raked downward, tearing through wood to shake the fruit loose. The ground beneath was picked clean; not a single apple remained. They'd been consumed or carried off.
Further into the orchard the destruction was fresher. Split branches still wept moisture where they'd been snapped. Claw marks cut deep vertical furrows through the bark, the wood beneath pale and exposed. Some trees still held fruit on their higher branches; just out of reach of the beast's assault.
At the far end of the rows untouched trees drooped under their burden, branches sagging with the weight of a harvest that couldn't be safely collected.
This wasn't a fresh problem. The mosshide bear had been working this orchard for a while, methodically clearing each tree before moving to the next.
Movement caught his eye. A figure emerged from between the rows of trees, moving with the weary gait of someone who had stopped expecting good news. Old Henrik was a weathered slab of a man, his face creased by decades of exposure to the elements. He wore a stained leather apron over a homespun tunic, his hands tough and callused. His eyes—pale blue and red-rimmed with exhaustion—fixed on Cal with a mixture of hope and skepticism.
Henrik's voice was rough and gravelly from disuse. "Guild send yuh?"
Cal nodded. "Cal Valorn. I'm here for the bear."
Henrik’s eyes dropped to the bronze disc on Cal’s shoulder strap, studying the silver wisps of a Proven’s emblem. The farmer's inspection traveled from Cal's boots to his spear, lingering on the quality of the weapon and armor. While his expression remained hard the set of his shoulders eased fractionally. "Look the part, anyway. Better'n the last fella they sent."
"What happened to the last one?"
Henrik's jaw tightened. "He ran. Saw the size of the beast an' decided his own hide was worth more'n the coin."
Cal filed that information away. "How big are we talking?"
Henrik turned and pointed toward the northern edge of the orchard where the cultivated trees gave way to the wild forest. "Saw it last night. Snatched a ewe right from the pens, it did. Thing's big as a draft horse, maybe bigger. Covered in so much moss yuh can't see it 'til it's movin'. Smart, that 'un. Don't charge. It just... waits. Shep got too close an it nabbed 'er."
He cross-referenced Henrik's description with the data from the Guild bestiary and Selara's books. Mosshide bears were variable tier spirit beasts, and this one occupied the high end of F-tier based on the contract. They used their symbiotic moss as camouflage, blending into the forest undergrowth near perfectly. Their primary weapon was patience. They stalked their prey for hours, waiting for the exact moment to strike.
And once they struck, they rarely stopped.
The only thing that broke this ambush predator pattern was how aggressive they became during their mating season, which just so happened to coincide with the harvest. Fun.
"How's the terrain? Open ground or dense cover?"
Henrik's wrinkled hand gestured toward the treeline. "Orchard's open 'nuff but them woods are thick. All brush an' deadfall."
The tactical picture formed a study in contrasts. Open ground would allow his Agility and Endurance to dictate range and tempo, giving him the advantage. In the dense cover, however, the bear could use its camouflage for an ambush, turning the fight into a vicious close-quarters brawl where its strength would prevail.
The smart play? Lure it into the open. Force it to fight on his terms.
Henrik shifted. "Still wantin' the work?"
Cal met his eyes. "I'll kill it. But I need to know—has it established a den nearby, or is it a roamer?"
Henrik blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "Got a den, I reckon. Found its scat down by the creek a'fore it started comin' round."
Cal nodded. That was useful. A territorial predator was predictable. It would return to its den to rest, digest, and mark its claim. If Cal could find the den, he could control the engagement. Even set his own ambush.
"Show me the creek. I'll scout the area and set up."
Henrik hesitated, his gaze lingering on Cal's face. His voice dropped, quieter now. "Yer sure 'bout this, boy? Yuh seem young. That thing could snap yuh like a twig."
Cal pulled the spear off his back and planted it on the ground.
"I'm sure."
Henrik nodded slowly, then turned and gestured toward the northern edge of the orchard. "Creek's thattaway. Just follow the water. Yuh'll find the trail."
Cal stepped past him and moved into the shadow of the trees.
The smell of apples faded, replaced by the green loamy scent of the forest. Light dimmed, filtered through layers of leaves and moss-draped branches. The undergrowth thickened, ferns and creeping vines tangling around downed logs.
His pace slowed as his [Spiritual Perception] probed the woods ahead. Somewhere out there waited the mosshide bear. With a firmer grasp on the spear he stepped deeper into the wild.
No abilities. No backup. Just you and the bear.
He smiled grimly.
Let's see what Peak F-tier can really do.
-
Chapter 19: expanding pool of trainees to more appropriately represent the population size of Deadfall
One hundred and fifty kids, mostly in a single age bracket. His perception of Deadfall was upended; the settlement was a frontier city, far larger than he had imagined.
Chapter 24: maintaining expansion of trainees and small lore drop about the younger looking trainees from Chapter 19 aligning with the Non-Awakened.
Non-Awakened. The pieces clicked into place. They were getting a head start on their drills before their Awakening made participation mandatory.
Chapter 26: large update to expand the goblin quarry so that Caleb ambushing the lone feral goblin didn't feel so near the cave mouth. To make his scuffed ambush still feel like it might NOT have attracted attention. (Too big of a change to quote here)
Chapter 27: same deal, just updated it to incorporate the change in setting and make Caleb a bit less oblivious to his surroundings.
Chapter 28: more of the same. Did a lot of adjusting to fit the new frame. Also tried to make his decision to go deeper into the cave more logical and less... plot armor-y.
Chapter 35: updated the void ring logic again as I try to fine-tune the magic system.
Chapter 36: maintaining continuity on the increased size of the mandate training cohort, and Hatch announcing that they will be taking who he determines are the top 40 to the tournament
Chapter 43: updated narrative to show that Leo's inclusion in the tournament was about nepotism and his Dad's wishes--not because he should have been in the top 40.
Chapter 43: hyperbolic language about life in the village was toned down
Chapter 43: updated language to hopefully provide more clarity on tournament structure, and also lore drop on potion sickness being the driver for ten matches a day (I had this in a previous iteration of the scene but must have accidentally deleted it when I was tinkering. This should have been there from the start).
[Life Shield] on both combatants, an advanced ward that remains dormant until it intercepts a fatal blow. Its activation is marked by a flash of silver light as it absorbs a single attack before fading completely."
Chapter 45: maintaining continuity of the stakes introduced in Chapter 43 around Leo's admittance to the tournament.
Chapter 46: maintaining continuity with the trainees' reactions to Leo winning his fight.
Chapter 48: maintaining continuity with Leo winning his fight.